


Whatever you got on, baby, stay in it

by robokittens



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: 2019-2020 NHL Season, Anal Fingering, Anal Fisting, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:21:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22997608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robokittens/pseuds/robokittens
Summary: "Oh," Dylan chokes out. "You really are horny for hockey."
Relationships: Mitch Marner/Dylan Strome
Comments: 10
Kudos: 112
Collections: The Dylan Strome Celebration 2020





	Whatever you got on, baby, stay in it

**Author's Note:**

  * For [madalaena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/madalaena/gifts).



> Allie!!! I hope you like this; I tried to do your boy Mitch justice (or wreck him, if that's not the same thing). Sorry about the hypothesized results of the current season, and trust me that I don't like it either, but it's for "plot" purposes.
> 
> Thank you to K., self-described connoisseur of both a/b/o and Mitch pornography, for kicking this into shape way too late into too many nights. This would be a mess without you. 
> 
> (The dubcon tag is just for the dubcon inherent to a/b/o, although I do want you to know that I very nearly tagged this "service alpha.")
> 
> //
> 
> post-reveals edit to say: i also can't believe i fucking wrote this lmaooooo bye ✌️

The nice thing about — well. There's nothing nice about getting knocked out of the playoffs early, scratching and clawing your way to the wild card only to get your asses kicked in the first round and sent home with your tails between your legs. So Dylan gets why Mitch is upset. He does.

Just, it would have been great. For Dylan. To have even gotten that far.

The nice thing about it, though, if he has to find a nice thing, is they both have long summers. Soon enough it'll be conditioning — or, well, getting his ass kicked by Paul, probably, while Alex laughs at him — back in Chicago, but he's home for a couple weeks. Got to see one of Mitch's home games from the fancy seats, which was a nice change from the visitor's locker room; watched the rest of them curled up on his parents' sofa with Oscar at his feet. 

It feels weird, being at his parents' house. Matt's home too, supposedly, but Dylan hasn't seen him for more than what feels like five minutes at a stretch. Ryan and Syd are staying in New York for the summer. Mitch keeps saying they should hang out but then cancelling before they even solidify plans.

Mitch's condo isn't even an hour away, and he's definitely just sulking — he was complaining to Dylan about how long his pizza delivery was taking, like, twenty minutes ago — and Dylan has a car. Well, his parents have cars. He has access to a car, is the point, and traffic is … probably pretty atrocious at this time of day, even by Toronto standards, but he has a car and he knows where Mitch lives. He can just like. Show up. Mitch will be annoyed about it, obviously, but Mitch being annoyed by something has never, ever stopped Dylan from doing it.

The opposite, usually.

—

Traffic isn't that atrocious, even by Toronto standards. There's only one bottleneck for no apparent reason, and minimal construction, so Dylan doesn't even have time to worry about if Mitch is gonna be too pissed to answer the door. The new Sam Hunt album finally dropped, like, weeks ago, and he's barely gotten a chance to listen to it, so that's a pretty good accompaniment on the ride over. 

The door guy at Mitch's condo lets him up basically immediately, which is nice; it's been a while since Dylan's been here but apparently he's good with faces. And Dylan signed something for his kid last time ("She's more of a Leafs fan, but —"), which probably helps.

Mitch is cranky about it but he lets Dylan in, like, eventually. He's burritoed in a very stupid blue plaid throw blanket. His hair looks terrible.

"Your hair looks terrible," Dylan says cheerfully, dropping a reusable canvas shopping bag on the table next to the empty pizza box Mitch hasn't bothered to throw away. "I brought beer."

"I don't want beer," Mitch says, shuffling back over to the sofa. He's wearing fuzzy socks. There's someone selling, like, bedazzled grilling tools on his giant TV, which is a baffling choice for 7pm on a weekday even with the sound off. There's some sort of music playing from Mitch's phone on the coffee table, but Dylan can't quite tell what it is. Maybe it was more audible inside Mitch's blanket cocoon. 

"Kay," Dylan says. He grabs two cans on his way over to the sofa anyway, plunks one down on the table and pops the tab on the other as he sits down on what he thinks probably isn't Mitch's feet. Mitch makes a little _oof_ sound as Dylan lands, but Dylan can't feel him squirming, so it's probably fine.

It's pretty quiet — it seems like Dylan can hear the sounds of himself swallowing, too loud over the muffled music. Mitch pulled his phone back inside his burrito with him, but it doesn't seem like he's texting or anything. Just pouting.

You should be used to this by now, Dylan thinks. He doesn't say it, though — it's too real, too soon. He's had weeks to adjust — longer, if he's being honest. It's only been a couple days since Mitch cleaned out his locker.

If there's one thing that always, always helps Mitch feel better though, it's physical contact, so he puts his half-empty beer down and shifts closer to Mitch, leans against his propped-up legs a little. And Mitch … stiffens?

"Mitch," Dylan says. It's a little closer to his mom's tone of voice when she's disappointed in them than he's comfortable with, but when he looks to see if Mitch is at least rolling his eyes fondly, there's just — nothing. Mitch looks uncomfortable, almost, which is fucking dumb.

" _Mitch_. Look. I know. I get it. Or —" He sucks in a deep breath. "I get it. It sucks. But stop pretending like you're too good to cuddle right now when you _know_ it'll make you feel better."

Mitch is still tense next to him, but the look of discomfort has shifted; he looks almost embarrassed. He opens his mouth like he's gonna say something, just barely visible over the blanket pulled up to his chin, then shuts it again, chewing on his lip. 

"It's just," Mitch says finally. "I don't wanna … touch anyone. Like this."

He takes a breath like he has more to say. Dylan keeps waiting.

"It's not like … a real one," he says quietly. He pulls the blanket up over more of his face. "So it's fine, I just gotta like … ride it out. But the meds don't help. Like this. Not even the emergency stuff, because it's just like …" He shrugs. It looks comical with the blanket up to his ears.

"Not a real … what?" 

Dylan's not sure if he should be concerned — _meds_? What the hell is Mitch taking? Was he hurt, and Dylan doesn't _know_ about it? But something about the way Mitch definitely looks embarrassed now, even if the blanket disguises what Dylan is one hundred percent certain is a blush spreading across his cheeks, makes him doubt it.

"You know. Just like fake …" Mitch doesn't quite trail off, more like mumbles something into the microfleece. So Dylan takes the only reasonable course of action and jabs at the spot under Mitch's knee where he _knows_ Mitch is ticklish; he finds it dead on even through the blanket and knocks Mitch's legs out from under him. Mitch is practically skin and bones at the end of the season, but the blanket makes it comfortable enough when Dylan drapes himself over him.

"Dyl," Mitch protests, but he doesn't actually shove Dylan off, doesn't do anything more than chuckle weakly when Dylan gets a mouth full of fleece while shoving his face up against Mitch's neck. Eventually, there's a hand on Dylan's shoulder blade, just resting gently.

It's quiet for a minute, but Dylan knows it'll be easier for Mitch to start talking once they're touching instead of looking at each other. It always has been.

Mitch takes a deep breath, then another. It's almost unnerving for him to be quiet this long, and Dylan finds himself relaxing a little more when he finally starts talking.

"You know how like … well, I don't know if you … it never really happened in London. For me. But sometimes when things are getting really intense at the end of the season — or like, post-season — I kind of. I don't really know what it is. The doctors call it a "false heat," but — Does that. Do you get those?" He mumbles the last bit. Dylan really doesn't need to see his face to know he's blushing now.

"Heat like …" Maybe Dylan's blushing a little, too. It's just like — biology, it's not _weird_ or anything, but it's not something they really talk about. 

Mitch shrugs a little, as well as he can with Dylan on top of him. "Yeah. Like it's not — it's fine, I can ride it out. But something about the like … excitement of playoff hockey, I guess. And then my body doesn't know what to do with it, so I just like …"

Dylan snorts. "You're horny for hockey."

"Shut _up_ ," Mitch hisses. "It's not _horny_ , it's just like —"

"Horny for hockey," Dylan repeats, sing-song. "Hockey gets you all wet, eh, Mitchy? You want hockey to fill you up? Pop a knot in you? Pop a — a puck? In you?"

"Oh my god." Mitch laughs. "You're disgusting." He can't really shove Dylan off when he's 95% inside a blanket, which is a definite advantage, but he's trying, shifting around underneath Dylan and kind of managing to knee him in the side. 

"You love me," Dylan says matter-of-factly. He gets a leg on the other side of Mitch's, effectively straddling him to pin him in place. "You're horny for hockey but you _looove_ me."

"I _hate_ you," Mitch says. He's laughing now for real, still bright red but at least looking a lot happier than when Dylan got here.

All Dylan had planned to do was push himself into a yet more advantageous position — upright to loom over Mitch, maybe, or see if he could get his hands under the blanket and wrest Mitch out of it — but he manages to move in a way that brings their hips together. And Mitch is —

"Oh," Dylan chokes out. "You really are horny for hockey."

"Oh my god," Mitch says. His voice is a little thin, strained. "If you're not gonna help can you just go."

Dylan's sure it was rhetorical, but he can't help the skepticism in his voice when he echoes, "Help? You know I'm —"

He cuts himself off. It's weird to say, weird to _acknowledge_. It's just that the terminology makes it sound like some sort of caste system, when really it was barely more than a note on either of their scouting reports. Matty was the strongest presentation in the Strome family for generations and even he's fine on whatever the AHL is feeding him.

"I know," Mitch says miserably. "So can you just —"

He stops talking abruptly. It takes Dylan a moment to realize it's because his own fingers are covering Mitch's mouth.

It's barely audible when Mitch says his name, but his breath is hot and damp on Dylan's hand. It's barely audible when Mitch gasps out, "Please," and Dylan replaces his fingers with his mouth.

Mitch kisses more tentatively than he would have expected — not that it's something he's spent much time thinking about. But if anyone had asked, he'd have said Mitch was probably sloppy, more enthusiasm than skill. This is … not that. This is Mitch slowly opening under him, mouth going lax against Dylan's, his lips parting gently for Dylan to lick his way inside. He can feel Mitch relaxing underneath him, sinking into the sofa. 

Mitch is so _warm_ , even through the blanket. He's letting out these little sounds, like choked-off gasps, that can't be conscious. Dylan is — he can't give Mitch what he needs, but he can't stop now, either. Both of Mitch's arms are out from his cocoon now, phone abandoned somewhere, winding around Dylan's shoulders instead, pulling him closer. Mitch is so open, so needy; Dylan can feel the desire radiating from him, can feel it settle low in the pit of his own stomach.

"You know I can't —" he starts, and Mitch cuts him off with another kiss, one hand at the base of his neck to hold him in place.

"I know." Mitch breathes the words out against his mouth, a tinge of desperation in his tone. "I _know_. But can you —" He cants his hips up, his dick pressing against the inside of Dylan's thigh. "Dyl, please. _Please_."

"What —" Dylan stops, takes a deep breath. He wonders, for just a moment, if this is sympathetic desire, his own body responding to whatever is happening to Mitch's, but then Mitch squeezes the back of his neck and he stops worrying long enough to bring their mouths together again. Mitch's saliva feels thicker, almost, than it should, like he's wet _everywhere_.

And. He probably is. Wet everywhere.

"What do you want me to do?" Dylan asks. His voice isn't as steady as he would like it to be.

"Just touch me." The need in Mitch's voice is more obvious now, his hips twitching erratically. "Please, Dylan, _please_ , just — please."

"What do you — Mitch. What do you —" 

Even pressed this close together, Dylan can see the moment Mitch's eyes slip shut. It looked, just before his lids trembled close, like his eyes rolled back in his head a little. " _Please_ ," he says again, fingers clenched white-knuckled in the blanket. It's not — Dylan doesn't want to call it begging. But it's close.

Dylan's never … he's never experienced anything like this, like what Mitch is going through. If this is a _false_ heat, he can't imagine what Mitch's _real_ ones must be like. He's never felt like this, like the live-wire way Mitch's muscles tense and shiver beneath him. 

"Okay," he says. He doesn't know what else to say. He twists his fingers in the fleece over Mitch's shoulders. "Can — can we get rid of this dumb blanket?"

The laugh Mitch lets out is almost a sob. He nods, still shaky. Pulling himself off of Mitch is one of the hardest things Dylan's ever had to do, but he manages it, climbs off to stand before reaching a hand out to Mitch, who grasps it desperately. 

It feels like it doesn't take anything to pull him up off the couch, and without Mitch holding the blanket shut, it falls to the floor. He's wearing a Leafs tee, unsurprisingly, and the fuzzy socks, and a pair of boxers that look like they're barely containing his dick; he's so hard Dylan goes a little dizzy just looking at it. If their positions were reversed — 

But they're not.

Dylan sinks to his knees. He runs a finger down the back of Mitch's calf, just to watch him shiver, and then tugs at the elastic of his sock. "I can't believe you want me to fuck you when you're dressed like this," he says, the chirp coming out less casual than he means it to, voice nearly breaking on the word _fuck_.

"Shut up," Mitch says weakly, but he lifts his foot enough for Dylan to slide the sock off. Then the other. He pulls his own shirt up and over his head, and Dylan tucks his fingers in the waistband of his underwear.

"Can I?" 

Mitch nods again. Dylan's so busy watching the way his teeth sink into his lower lip that he almost doesn't realize Mitch's boxers are practically soaked through until he's stepping out of them. It's — there's a smell to it, almost, not like BO or like the unfortunately-familiar smell of unwashed hockey gear, but … something. Something else he can't quite place.

"Holy shit," Dylan says quietly. He runs his hand back up Mitch's calf, up and up to the place where he's practically leaking. "Mitch, I —"

"Oh my god." Mitch sounds ruined. He's begging now, there's nothing else to call it. "Please, I need — Dylan, your — please, inside me, I need —"

Dylan soothes his fingers through the slick on Mitch's inner thigh. "Lay back down," he says, and Mitch practically trips over himself getting back to the couch. And it's — it's a little much, the way he just … displays himself: one foot on the ground, the other splayed over the back of the sofa. He's so open. Dylan can't believe he's —

"Okay," he whispers, reassuring himself more than Mitch. He kneels between Mitch's spread legs. It's a lot to take in. When Mitch tilts his hips up, he can _see_ — Mitch is so wet. He looks. He looks like he needs … like he needs Dylan.

Dylan runs his finger over Mitch's thigh again, tracing an idle pattern against his skin. Mitch shudders; his hips hitch up again. Dylan traces up, through the sweat and the slick coating Mitch's thigh. His thumb brushes Mitch's perineum and Mitch gasps.

"Stop _teasing_ ," Mitch gasps.

"I'm — I'm not," Dylan says. Mitch's whole body twitches; his _asshole_ twitches. It's not. Not something Dylan was ready for. Mitch's whole body looks like it wants him, and Dylan knows he's not what Mitch needs, not exactly, not now. But he can be something. 

He presses in with his thumb, lets it slide lower until it's resting just above Mitch's hole.

"Can —"

He barely gets the word out before Mitch interrupts him. "Dylan, stop fucking _teasing_. I _need_ you, I _need you to_ —" The sound he makes is halfway to miserable. Dylan moves his thumb that last couple centimeters, watches in fascinated horror as Mitch's body opens up for him so easily.

"Jesus," he whispers. Mitch takes him like he's nothing, and it's just — just his thumb, not like he's taking Dylan's whole fucking hand, his dick, the knot he doesn't have, just — 

Mitch moans again. It's almost a whine. Dylan twists his thumb, just rotates it inside Mitch, and that's definitely a whine.

"More," Mitch pleads. "I need it, I —"

"Yeah you do." Dylan pulls his thumb out. Mitch looks so wet, so empty; he pushes back in with two fingers before he can second-guess himself.

Mitch gasps. "Ohmygod," he says. " _Dylan_ — I —"

Dylan puts his other hand on Mitch's thigh, high up just under the cut of his hip, runs his fingers soothingly over the thin skin there. "I got you," he says. His fingers are so deep inside Mitch that he's practically cupping his balls, and when he looks up — looks away, finally, from where he's inside him, Mitch is cradling his own dick almost tenderly to his stomach.

"Should I —" 

Mich shakes his head fervently. He's so red, eyes blown wide open. His mouth looks as slick as the rest of him. "Just," he says, and stops. It seems like it's all he can manage.

It's enough, though. Dylan pulls his hand back just enough to give himself room before pushing back with three fingers. It's an awkward fit; even with how wet Mitch is, there's not really room to move. His pinky finger, curled up against Dylan's palm, nudges up against Mitch's entrance and Mitch chokes out a gasp. 

Dylan's eyes widen. "Do you —"

" _Please_." Mitch's voice is little more than a whimper. 

"That's —" Dylan can't keep the urgency, the fear or the arousal, out of his own voice. "That's a lot. Are you sure?"

Mitch takes a long, deep, shuddering breath. "I can — I can take it. I need it. _Please_."

The fourth finger is actually easier than the third. Mitch feels so strange inside, hot and slick and _clenching_ around Dylan's fingers. Around, god, most of his hand. It feels like so much more than it is. 

Dylan tears his gaze away from where his fingers fit so smoothly into Mitch, up to where Mitch's hand can't quite cover his dick as he presses it against his stomach, the head a violent red where it leaks over his trembling fingers; the flush on his chest, his neck; the sweat beading on his forehead. Dylan pushes in a little deeper, tilts his fingers just so, and watches as Mitch's mouth drops open in a silent cry.

"You got this," Dylan says. He's not sure if it's to Mitch or to himself. His voice is steady, but only barely, unable to help the need that creeps in around the edges. Seeing Mitch like this is … it's a lot. It's too much, almost; his own need a distant second to seeing if he can pull more desperate noises out of Mitch, to watch the way his nose scrunches up, the way his eyelids tremble, the tears catching in the corners of his lashes.

Dylan's whole hand is getting wet, Mitch's slick sliding viscous down his palm. Dylan's never been this wet in his life, not even in the mess of puberty when everything was new and awful and felt like life or death. Not even — Mitch looks like it's life or death _now_ , like he'll die if he doesn't get Dylan's entire hand inside him.

Which. Is a thought. Dylan's breath catches in his throat, and his fingers must stop moving because Mitch makes a soft, protesting sound.

"Mitch — can I —" 

When Mitch's lashes unstick, when his eyelids flutter open, his eyes are glassy and unfocused. "Whatev—" He stops, swallows hard. "Whatever you want. _Please_ , just — I need —"

It's like a knot, Dylan figures. Almost. The closest he can get to what Mitch actually _wants_ , and — the most Dylan can do for him.

He's not sure who else Mitch has slept with, if this is what it's like for him _every_ off-season, if this happens during the year. If … there's someone, probably. Normally. Who can give him what he needs. But for now, there's just Dylan.

"Tell me if this is too much," he whispers. He trains his eyes on Mitch's face: Mitch's eyes have slipped shut again, his mouth wet and open, his breath heavy. Dylan pulls his hand out far enough to tuck his thumb in against his palm and presses back in, slow but steady, before Mitch can even protest.

The long, shaky breath Mitch lets out doesn't sound like a protest, or the soft, hitching moans that follow it as Dylan slowly curls his fingers inward. There's a moment where the noises Mitch is making sound almost like words, but when Dylan pauses they just become desperate, needy. "Okay," he says. "You've got this." He keeps his voice as quiet as he can, but he can tell he's not as soothing as he wants to be. 

He's aware, all at once, that he's achingly hard inside his jeans. He could probably — he could fuck Mitch, probably. If he wanted. Mitch wouldn't — it wouldn't be what he wanted, exactly, but it would be — But this is closer. And Dylan is just. Trying to help.

He takes a steadying breath and pushes his hand forward, pulls it back. Just the tiniest increments, but from the way Mitch is reacting it must feel huge inside of him. Dylan finds an angle that seems to work, that makes the moans Mitch keeps letting out get higher and higher, threadier, more urgent-sounding. Mitch is so impossibly tight around him. Dylan's wrist is wet, his forearm, slick down to his elbow.

It doesn't seem to be anything in particular that has Mitch squeezing even tighter around him. He _shouts_ when he comes, an almost pained, animalistic sound. Dylan stills, lets Mitch just — feel him. It doesn't seem like he needs anything else, but there's a part of Dylan that wonders if he could keep pushing. How far he could go; how much Mitch could take.

He makes himself look away from where his hand feeds into Mitch's body, makes himself look at Mitch's face. Or tries to; he gets stuck, on the way, on just how much of a mess Mitch has made of himself. He's so _wet_ , outside now to match the inside. 

Inside, where Dylan still is.

"Should …" It's barely audible. He swallows, tries again. "Do you want me to —"

" _Yes_ ," Mitch says. So quickly, so urgently. "Please. More."

" _More_?"

Mitch just moans again, head tipping back. Dylan can see where he shot up to his chin, glistening in the overhead light. 

He can't argue. Not with Mitch like this. His hand is cramping but he doesn't care, starts moving it again, tiny back and forths. It doesn't take much before Mitch is clenching down around him again, groaning loudly. 

It doesn't seem as intense this time, and Mitch relaxes afterward. He's panting now — Dylan is, too, he realizes. He feels almost sympathetically wet despite being nowhere close to his own heat, still so fucking hard that he knows he's probably leaking there at least. 

Dylan slowly, slowly, uncurls his fingers. Mitch shivers through it, and the noise he lets out seems like it might be _actual_ pain this time. Dylan isn't sure he can move slower, but — he tries. Pulls his hand out just a little, pauses to let Mitch adjust. Eases his knuckles out as gentle as he can. Mitch is looser now, around Dylan's hand.

Mitch shakes apart again when Dylan finally works his hand free, the last drag of fingers over his sore rim too much for his overworked body. It's silent this time, nothing but hot breath coming through Mitch's lips. Dylan resists for … half a second, maybe, before he leans in, fastens his mouth to Mitch's again.

Mitch's kisses are slow, but not the way they were earlier. He seems drugged, almost, or asleep; half a step behind as he tries to kiss Dylan back. But he's just as easy under Dylan as he was before, just as pliant, just as soft. The heel that had been propped on the back of the couch comes to rest on the small of Dylan's back, instead; Dylan can feel Mitch's muscles trembling with the effort of holding him close.

"I'm not going anywhere," he whispers against Mitch's jaw. "Not until you want me to."

"Don' wan' you to." Mitch's voice is slow, slurred. He's barely coherent, to the point where it takes Dylan a moment to understand the next thing he says. "You c'n fuck me, if you wan'. 'F you wan' to."

It's a fresh rush of arousal when Dylan didn't realize he could _get_ more turned on. He can only imagine what it would be like: Mitch must still be loose down there, so open, so, _so_ fucking wet. It would be nothing for Dylan to slip inside him. 

The thought is — it's too much. Dylan presses his face to the side of Mitch's neck, mouthing at his pulse as his own orgasm rushes through him. It's not as intense as Mitch's were — not even as intense as Mitch's felt _to Dylan_. But it's a lot; it seems to go on for longer than it should, and by the time he's shivering against Mitch's side he can feel his underwear are soaked through. 

His clothes are _covered_ , he realizes, his own come on the inside and Mitch's slick all over his shirt, the front of his jeans where they're pressed together. His hand is drying tacky where it's shoved up against the side of the couch, fingers slotted against Mitch's ribs.

"Do you have pants that will fit me," he says. It's not really a question, since he knows the answer is no.

Mitch makes a noncommittal sound, shifting under Dylan's arm like he's settling back into his body. "Th' dryer's fixed now," he says, huffing out a sleepy laugh. Dylan hadn't even known Mitch's dryer was broken. There's a lot they hadn't had time to talk about, toward the end of the season. And they don't talk as much as they used to, these days.

Or, well — they didn't. Dylan can't help the grin he hides in Mitch's neck, can't hide the way he's laughing too. They're certainly closer now than they were yesterday.

"You're thinking something dumb, aren't you?" Mitch says. His voice is almost back to normal now, a little hoarse, but he's pronouncing all of his words. 

"Yeah," Dylan fires back. "Thinking _about_ something dumb, since I'm thinking about you." The moment he says it he realizes it's not quite the insult he was going for, but from the way Mitch drags him back into a kiss, it doesn't seem like he minds.

"You like me," Mitch says, when Dylan pulls back just enough to press their foreheads together. "Embarrassing."

"Yeah it is," Dylan says. He's not sure if Mitch can see him roll his eyes with their faces this close. "Stupid blanket, fuzzy socks, so cranky your booty call has to call himself …"

Mitch actually laughs at that, right in Dylan's face. Like, actually right in his face. Dylan has to kiss him again just to get him to stop. 

It's when they've slowed back down to lazy pecks, to Dylan's cheek smushed into Mitch's shoulder and Mitch's face buried in Dylan's hair, that Mitch says, "We'll see how embarrassing you are, when it's your turn."

And, well. Dylan's never — he's never felt it quite like Mitch does. But maybe if Mitch is there with him … it might be different. He wouldn't mind finding out.


End file.
